Gram Parsons

After dinner at Ajanta in Berkeley, I came to the conclusion that there's a definite connection between Indian food and hallucination. Perhaps something in the spices.

I was then driving across the Bay Bridge, entering the new section which simulates a cathedral, especially at night. So much light, like stepping into the cathedral at Nantes at noon on a sunny day to witness the great Edict. It didn't seem quite right, it seemed too good to be true, but I couldn't turn around, I had to keep going, and I did. I felt like I was coming out of myself, so there was no need to hurry. As long as I could see the other side I could surely get there in the form I regarded as my identity.

But I couldn't see the other side, or rather the two sides of everything were becoming one and the same right in front of my eyes. If I was a basketball coach I could call time-out, but I'm not a basketball coach, I don't even like basketball that much anymore.

By this time my eyes were in some kind of panic mode, perhaps brought on by Indian food, so I gripped the wheel that much more fervently, knowing that if I made it through the tunnel I'd find my way home.

And I did.

All I found at home was the same life I'd led when I left for Ajanta, the Indian restaurant in Berkeley. When I unlocked the front door my head was still spinning like a cat being swung around by its tail. I had to sit down, be quiet, drink a glass of cold mineral water, Gerolsteiner. That's about the time I heard the song.

If you know how to listen, you can hear the whole weird night of Indian food and hallucination and me losing track of myself on the Bay Bridge happening all over again on the album, "Grievous Angel." There's one song in particular, the song that begins, "Won't you scratch my itch, sweet Annie Rich."